


One More?

by finnickyfox



Series: unhinged friday one-shots [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fae Stiles Stilinski, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending, Injured Stiles Stilinski, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary Stiles Stilinski, Other, Peter Hale Has a Crush, The Hale Family (Teen Wolf) Lives, The World's Best Wingman: A Murder Attempt, They/Them Stiles Stilinski, Warning: Kate Argent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27890839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnickyfox/pseuds/finnickyfox
Summary: Peter keeps running into a faeling in the Hale preserve.-Or the one where Peter yearns, Stiles craves, and Kate Argent unknowingly plays matchmaker.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: unhinged friday one-shots [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014021
Comments: 25
Kudos: 761





	One More?

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back to unhinged Friday! Time for the yearning to be a little horny, as a treat. I saw [this image on tumblr](https://transtilinski.tumblr.com/post/627848061473980416) and it's always stuck in my head. I probably could write a dozen fics based off it but let's start here.
> 
> *I tagged this as Explicit just in case but the smut's not that graphic in my opinion and can be skipped over if that's not your thing.

Peter’s stalking through the forest, growling every few minutes, making as much noise as possible. What is the point of practicing stealth if his pack will never take advantage of his skill set? He’s sixteen, everyone knows he’s going to be the Left Hand, it’s time for him to be a part of important meetings. 

Even Talia tried backing Peter up to mom and wasn’t _that_ embarrassing? He didn’t need his sister’s help, he didn’t need anyone’s help. His growling lengthens and rumbles louder. It’s not fair—

“Stop.”

Peter freezes. He will deny it to his dying day but he _freezes_. Growl cut off abruptly, limbs locked in place. He’s supposed to wolf out and attack at unfamiliar voices like a proper Left Hand. No one can ever know about this. He should have heard the enemy’s presence far before they could speak to him. 

The enemy scolds Peter. “You scared away the mother.”

The cadence of the speech isn’t natural, too lilting and otherworldly. Peter unfreezes ever so slowly, grateful for not having attacked. Focusing on clearing his mind, praying to the moon that he makes it through this, Peter shifts slowly to face whatever fae-creature stands behind him. 

It’s...a teenager. In human years, at least—maybe not so much in fae years. But the faeling looks no younger than Peter. 

They are the most beautiful sight Peter has ever laid his eyes on.

“That’s better,” the faeling says. “No more growling?”

Peter forgets all etiquette with dealing with fae, all the warnings thrown out the window of his mind. The fae don’t make themselves known in Beacon Hills. All Peter recalls is to be careful with their questions, to not give his name, to never ask for theirs, and to hope he makes it out of the encounter in one piece and sane of mind. 

The faeling doesn’t _look_ dangerous or like they are one second away from dealing Peter a fatal blow. In fact, the faeling seems _wary_ of Peter. 

The faeling is tiny. A little taller than Peter, perhaps, if they straighten their back, but they’re skinny and all sharp lines. Collar bones and elbows and shoulder blades. 

Peter wants to skim his fingers across the unnaturally sharp cheekbones. The tips of pointed ears. Their lips are blue-ish, cold looking, and Peter desperately wants to kiss them warm. 

The only largeness to the faeling is their hands, big with long bony fingers that Peter finds elegant. He wonders what instruments the fae world has. 

Gathered in those large beautiful hands and slender arms is a fawn, young enough to still be spotted white. The deer is completely docile in the faeling's hold, cradled under the slope of small breasts. 

Peter’s gaze wanders back upward, finding eyes that might be unnervingly large to anyone else but breathtaking to Peter. Wide, unblinking doe eyes. 

Peter’s horribly endeared by it. It should be disturbing, the oddness of how the faeling mirrors the animal in its arms. An inverse of the fawn’s coat of brown with white spots—the faeling is pale white and spotted brown, dark freckle-like spots dotting along the faeling’s face and neck and more. Their hair, cropped short, is streaked in similar shades of brown.

“You scared the mother off,” the faeling repeats, jarring Peter out of his trance. A gentle frown mars their features. “You won’t kill the doe on the moon’s watch. That’s your penance.”

Peter swallows thickly. That’s lighter than a slap on the wrist coming from a fae. He tips his head in acknowledgement and the worried blue-tinted lips relax, as do Peter’s heartstrings.

The faeling prompts, “No more growling?”

Peter shakes his head.

Those wide amber eyes finally blink and the faeling cocks their head, scrutinizing Peter while unwittingly displaying their neck. They declare, “You’re not so scary. For a wolf.”

“You’re not so scary,” Peter speaks for the first time, “for a faeling.”

“Not now,” the faelings says. They speak distractedly, but something sharp is tucked in the corner of their lips. It’s exhilarating and all Peter can do is stand there, stunned, as the faeling wanders off, barefoot through a trickling stream.

* * *

On the full moon, Peter not only stays away from deer—he’s not sure which one is the mother—he herds them like a sheepdog, snarling at any packmates that come near.

* * *

Peter’s taken to running in the woods at dusk, running the perimeter while everyone eats. He weaves through nature, chasing the prickling sensation of being watched.

He catches glimpses. Not often, but enough to keep the thrill simmering in his gut. 

On a particularly hot summer night, Peter stops to splash his face in the small stream running through the preserve. A little movement in his periphery vision captures his attention. 

It’s less bravery and more idiocy that has Peter calling out. He’s never been one for patience and it’s been a few years. “I thought I wasn’t scary,” Peter says. 

The faeling peeks around the tree trunk they’re hiding behind, large hands holding onto the bark and wide eyes peering out. 

Peter thinks he might hand over his heart, right here and now. 

“I’m not supposed to interact with ‘wolves,” the faeling says. 

Peter almost asks why not before he remembers—no questioning the fae. Peter points out, “I’m not a wolf right now.”

More of the faeling emerges from behind the tree. Speckled stomach and long legs. “Are you a handsome wolf?”

“I can’t turn into a full animal. Only Alphas can.”

The faeling pouts. “That’s silly.”

Amusement curls in Peter’s chest. “I suppose so,” he says.

The faeling rests their head on the tree trunk, shoulders heaving high with the enormity of their sigh. “It’s easier, this way.”

Peter makes an intrigued sound, dying to ask why. 

“You’d be a handsome wolf and then I’d have no option but to stay with you because how could I ever leave something so precious?”

Peter’s heart races.

“You aren’t in trouble,” the faeling says as if to reassure Peter. “I’m the one getting into mischief.” The faeling droops, mutters, “Won’t be happy I’ve run off again.”

Peter takes a step forward before he remembers his place. He fights the growl in his throat, the worry in his heart, and says, “The woods are safe here.”

The faeling blinks slow. They tilt their head and ask, “Would you save me, wolf?”

“Yes.”

The smile is heart-stopping, all the secrets of the world hidden in the corner of their lips. “Foolish.”

* * *

Peter sees the faeling a few more times in the following years. They don’t speak, running through the woods together.

* * *

Peter wakes up to the faeling sitting on top of him. They hold a hand to their lips.

Peter lets himself be led out of the house by the faeling, cold hand loosely tugging on his fingers. 

“Have you had sex?” the faeling whispers, coming to a halt deep in the forest.

Peter nods, scarcely breathing.

“Are you gentle?”

Peter hesitates. He thinks of rushed hook-ups, fast and furious, never having the luxury of time in his life.

“I’m to be wed,” the faeling confesses and then slaps a hand over their mouth. 

Peter wishes the words could follow their hand, going back into the faeling’s mouth and never coming out again. Peter wishes he could unhear the ugly truth. 

On a whim, Peter reaches out and takes the faeling’s hand away, his fingers brushing briefly over cold lips. He keeps his eyes locked on the faeling and brings the hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the knobbly knuckles.

A pretty blush scatters across the faeling’s face. Peter swears the moonlight is unnaturally bright, or maybe the faeling is a tiny piece of the moon, glowing beautifully in the shadowed forest. “You took my first kiss.”

“Was it good?”

Th faeling’s mouth parts in surprise and Peter doesn’t wish to take his question back. He’s crossed the line already tonight and it’s a question deserving to be asked, damn the rules. The faeling and Peter have never operated in the boundaries of what should be done.

The faeling nods and then smiles and asks, “One more?”

Peter presses a kiss to the wrist, his blood pumping loudly in his ears. The faeling’s arm trembles in his hold. 

“One more?”

Peter kisses the inside of their elbow. 

“One more?”

Peter presses a kiss to the knob of their sharp shoulder. 

The faeling, trembling all over now, voice shaky and soft, asks again, “One more?”

Peter kisses the curve of their neck. He pulls back a tad quickly, worried about the temptation to bite. 

His head is level with the faeling’s, so close now, closer than ever before. He wishes to flash his eyes and see better in the night but he won’t risk frightening the faeling out of the fragile, so, so fragile moment hanging between them.

Peter’s eyes move slowly to the faeling’s lips, the natural next stopping point.

“One more,” the faeling says and it’s a command this time—one Peter has no problem following. 

He doesn’t dare slip his tongue in. But he wants to take as much as he’s given and give as much as he’s allowed. He cups the faeling’s cheek, cradling the sharp jaw, and brings their lips together. Peter takes half a step forward, his other hand going to take the faeling’s waist. He presses into the kiss, wanting to warm the lips under his.

The faeling breaks them apart, sinking to the ground and tugging Peter with them. A soft bed of grass grows.

Peter kisses each toe to collect every little giggle. He takes his time, giving out his kisses like he has to use up all his life’s worth in one night. In a way, it’s true. He kisses one ankle and then the next, nipping slightly, growing confident with each dare for more.

“One more.”

“One more.”

“One more.”

“One more.”

Long fingers fist in Peter’s hair and the faeling cries out, hips bucking up to chase Peter’s tongue. Peter gently holds the faeling’s hip, careful not to leave any bruises, trying to keep the squirming little darling in place.

“One more, one more,” the faeling says and Peter doesn’t so much as kiss as he devours but they don’t seem to mind, an endless chanting of, “one more, one more, _one—more_.”

Peter's intoxicated on the two words. He thinks he’s ruined forever for anyone crying out his name because nothing will ever be sweeter than _one more_. He’s had sex before, he’ll have sex again, but he has never and never again will be intimate like this. 

“One more,” the faeling babbles, sounding pleasure-drunk as Peter feels, weakly pulling Peter up from between their legs. They giggle and attempt to clean the mess off Peter's face. They giggle again when Peter flicks his tongue out to lick at their palm.

With the same hand, they reach down into Peter's pajama pants and under his sticky boxers. He’s never been so shameless in his life, having come untouched from the faeling's shocked cry when Peter swirled his tongue around their swollen clit, pushing their climax over the edge. He groans a similarly shocked sound at the rough fingertips dragging along his happy trail and swirling to gather his cum. The faeling pulls their hand out and holds their fingers close to Peter’s lips, asking, a small plea, “One more?”

Peter doesn’t understand but he doesn’t hesitate, taking them into his mouth and tasting his salty bitterness. He startles a moment later, moaning around the faeling’s fingers as two of his own fingers are enveloped in hot wet warmth, pinpricks of teeth and a pushing tongue. 

The faeling watches Peter’s mouth, eyes half-lidded and heady. Other than saliva, no trace of Peter marks the inside or outside of the faeling’s body, except for their two fingers in Peter’s mouth. The faeling sucks on Peter’s fingers, drawing them further in, smelling of frustrated hunger.

The faeling can’t have Peter’s seed, not even to taste, but they _want_ to. A vicious mean part of Peter wants to take the faeling’s name, keep them to himself. 

It would always feel wrong, though, to not be chosen. To never be sure of the faeling’s genuine desires if Peter trapped them. Peter’s a selfish man and he needs to be wanted wholly and completely beyond any other. 

The faeling slips their fingers, licked clean of all evidence, out of Peter’s mouth at the same time as they slips Peter’s out of theirs. 

The faeling leans over and presses their forehead to Peter’s. They are as cruel as Peter, a perfect match, whispering, “If only you were a handsome wolf…”

With a light breeze, the faeling’s gone.

* * *

Peter allows Talia to set up an arranged marriage. There is no other way he’ll mate with someone. Falling in love is no longer in the cards when his heart’s been stolen long ago. 

* * *

Before any serious arrangements can be made, the Hale house burns.

“Wolf! Wolf!”

The voice calling out isn’t cruel or mean, not spitting the word out like poison. It’s more of a cry; a howl to the moon. 

Peter’s faeling rescues him, and by doing so rescues the pack, breaking through the mountain ash line. “Wolf, wolf, wolf,” the faeling repeats, patting Peter all over. Tears stream down their face.

And then, the heartbroken expression slackens. Peter’s head processes everything a second too late, his body focused on healing the minor burns. He sluggishly connects the sound of a _click_ belonging to a gun—his faeling blinks once, big eyes growing wider.

Peter grabs at empty air but it’s too late.

The pack, in various states of hurt but all alive, growl for their rescuer, crumpled on the ground, skin flushing a darkening blue.

A mean cackle echoes through the forest and Peter snarls, rage flaring back up—how could he have forgotten the shouts of _wolf_ that weren’t lovely?

“Bitch missed one.” The huntress emerges from the shadows with a grin. “Killed some of my best men but,” her eyes flick to Peter’s faeling, “everyone is expendable.”

“They’re _fae_ ,” little Cora cries out. “You can’t harm fae!”

“Oh, sweetie, but I can,” the huntress coos. 

Peter drops to his knees, gathering his faeling in his arms, “One more,” he says urgently. “Tell me your name. I said I’d save you, remember? I’m Peter. Peter Hale. Peter Franklin Hale. Just one more, please. Your name.”

The faeling coughs up shimmering liquid. It smells like tears. They slur something, an impossible sound, and Peter cries, hoping he doesn’t have to repeat the name for the binding to work because he’ll need practice before he can pronounce that right. 

Peter hears the chaos but is too numb to look up at the huntress being slaughtered. Laura has finally shown up. Peter’s wolf wants to kill his niece for taking the kill that should be his wolf’s right. 

His wolf— _his wolf._

_That’s silly_ , echoes in his mind and he thinks yes, it is, it’s _fucking ridiculous_ for Alphas to have that all to themselves. Why do werewolves tell themselves they can’t be the second syllable of their name?

It’s truly as easy as that, acknowledging how insanely silly it is to need red eyes in order to be what he is meant to be.

The world is disorienting and he’s more feral than sane but he’s a wolf—a full wolf and his faeling must stay with him, just like they told him.

There’s a breeze and a booming voice says, “Oh, what has the little mischief done now. Oh, dear. That kill should have been mine.” Peter growls, can’t help it, the huntress should have been _his_ kill. “Oh, my. Oh my, oh my, oh my. What do we have _here_ …”

A figure crouches in front of Peter, beady eyes searching his soul. “Little mischief is right. You _are_ foolish. Do you know that you bound yourself together all those years ago?” The sharp-toothed smile is proud, soft. “Clever one. Ah, unions are broken so carelessly these days. Clever mischief never was happy with the engagement, and you _are_ a handsome wolf.” Peter stills, fighting back every instinct as a scaled hand reaches under him. His faeling isn’t taken away, only cured of that teary scent. “What is the human phrase? Ah, good luck. You’ll need it with this one.”

The fae disappears in a small tornado and Peter hunkers down, covering his faeling’s body. Fingers grasp at his underbelly.

“Peter?” The gasp is soft and delighted. His faeling scrambles out from under Peter. “Oh, I can’t leave you now.”

Peter rumbles at his healed faeling. Long elegant fingers raise and Peter steps a paw forward, pressing his snout to it. He shifts back human, opening his eyes to a blindingly bright smile.

His faeling stares with doe eyes, something sharp tucked in the corner of their lips, a secret just for Peter— _o_ _ne more?_

**Author's Note:**

> DOUBLE SUCCESS. It WAS Friday in my timezone when I accidentally closed the tab instead of posting so this counts as being Friday still AND I have finally posted this story! Every week I've edited it before changing my mind and choosing a different one-shot. This is definitely tied with the call of morning and wolves for Most Ambiguous Unhinged. If this wasn't self-indulgent enough, just wait for the memes the tumblr post is going to have tomorrow (today?).
> 
> Thank you for reading and for those following the series, thank you for all your comments! I haven't had time to reply but they mean the world to me <3 I hope everyone has a lovely weekend :)
> 
> Update: [you can reblog this and check out the memes here](https://transtilinski.tumblr.com/post/636764120802344960/unhinged-friday-part-4-the-only-gender-is)


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